


Don't You Wanna Stay?

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:19:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Eridan isn't satisfied with having a kismesis... because sometimes he gets a little too attached.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't You Wanna Stay?

Sometimes you get tired of having a kismesis.

Sometimes, when he’s in front of you and one of his arms is shaking, trying to hold himself as far away from the floor as he can manage, trying to do a job its companion has just given up on; when that arm gives out too and he folds them in front of himself, burying his face in them, and he’s making a variety of soft, pleasured noises completely against his will; when he’s _yours_ and you know he hates it but he’s too tired at this point to fight with you, and you’re almost grateful because you had to work so hard to get him here, and you’re going to feel it tomorrow; when you lean forward, thankful for the height advantage – even though it’s slight, and his legs are deliciously long – and you grab him by the hair, you pull his head up, you hook two of your fingers into his mouth and press your claws against the wet, black flesh of his cheek; when he whines around your fingers and you feel his tongue, trying so hard to coax them away from there so he can _suck_ on them…

Sometimes you don’t think you hate him.

It’s hard to admit to yourself but as you forego the decorated bucket you’ve carefully placed beside the two of you and let your essence fill him (and fuck, the sounds he makes, the way he squirms and fusses when he feels it); as your fingers roughly work the twin bulges throbbing between his legs and you coax him into release before you yourself have even finished, and you feel his muscles spasm and oh, these noises are even better; the way he presses back against you and bites into the soft skin on the underside of his arm, beads of mustard-colored blood escaping around his teeth…

Sometimes you even think he’s beautiful.

But he always leaves after, and he’s so flustered, ashamed that he’d let his guard down in front of you, shown weakness before his goddamn kismesis, that he doesn’t even talk to you. You take jibes at him, insult him – sometimes you just try to make conversation, but he doesn’t bother responding to you. It makes you so angry, and you don’t think he’s even doing it on purpose, it’s just saving face… and if he knew at all, he’d sure as hell take pleasure in it.  
Because he’s your kismesis, and that’s supposed to happen.

But you get attached easily. Yes, this started out as hate, but it wasn’t unusual for things like this to flip. The problem is that you can’t say anything. You’re almost positive that only one half of this pair feels that way, and it’s not him.

Next time, though, you take advantage of the fact that he doesn’t sleep much (and okay, maybe you’re partially to blame for that, but you’re still caliginous after all). You can tell when he’s finished, when he’s at the point of exhaustion that would normally have him dragging his feet towards the way out, so you don’t let him up. You grab his throat and you spit a growl from between your teeth.

“Stay with me.”

He bristles, grabs your wrist and digs his claws into your skin. It’s not enough to draw blood but it’s _enough_ so you squeeze a little, and he sneers. His face is angry but his eyes, eyes you can only see because he was so rough with you that he’s lost them somewhere in your respiteblock… Those aren’t angry. They’re half-lidded and just barely illuminating the darkness, and his eyebrows are quirked in what you’ve come to recognize as curiousity. You know he understands that you’ve come to know him well enough by now, that one of his major influences is _curiosity_ , and you let him pull your hand away from his neck.

“Fine,” he agrees, “jutht let me clean up firtht.”

There’s a slight edge to his voice, but it’s half-hearted and you want to say something, to poke fun at that – not because you want to but because you feel like you should. You push those thoughts aside because you don’t want to ruin this, and as soon as you opened your mouth he’d be out of here.

So you relent instead, to letting him clean himself up, mostly because you like the idea, and once you’re far less splattered in purple and yellow (and this is where you realize that you like them together, you think, more than you hate them together, and that should probably bother you more than it does), you’re lying together; not in a recuperacoon but on a pile he helped you make of the more comfortable-looking shit lying around. He tells you, as he lays with his back to you, that he only helped you because he’s tired and you were taking for-fucking-ever, carrying things back and forth, when he wouldn’t even have to move his legs. Then it’s quiet, and if tracing his sharper edges with your bespectacled eyes hadn’t alerted you to his breathing you would have thought he had fallen asleep already.

“Turn around,” you order.

It doesn’t seem like he’s heard you at first and you think he’s just ignoring you, but eventually he shifts, slowly, until he’s facing you. His eyes are unfocused and he blinks a couple of times before looking at you, and you realize he wasn’t – maybe he was thinking, or maybe his brain couldn’t process the words you had said as fast as he would have liked.

You also realize that he’s _waiting_ for something, now that you’ve jarred him out of almost-sleep, so you quirk an eyebrow but he says nothing – and you can’t be sure, but you think he rolls his eyes at you.

So you edge forward just a little, because he’s already close enough, and you kiss him – and it’s gentle, far different than what either of you have experienced with each other, where your teeth are clacking together and your lips are being snagged and bitten ragged.  
He’s either disgusted or surprised, because he does nothing but let you at first.  
You’re not satisfied with this.

You persist, you try again, and this time he kisses you back. He’s rougher than you but for the first time he’s not angry. He’s not trying to make you bleed or whine or screw up your face with pain – and it’s not hungry, either; he doesn’t want you. He doesn’t need you. He’s probably just humoring you, and you know not to get your hopes up, but he kisses you a second time and you feel your fins flutter, just slightly.  
He tells you it was only because “odd numberth are fucking lame,” and maybe it makes you smile, but not until he pulls back and closes his eyes again. This one was softer, and though his teeth graze your bottom lip they don’t catch.

“Aren’t you afraid?” You tilt forward again and breathe your words against his mouth and you’re inwardly pleased when he shivers. And then he laughs, just once.

“Of you? Why?”

His voice is soft now, quieter than usual, but he still manages to sound like a smug asshole.

“I could kill you as soon as you fell asleep. It’d be so fuckin’ easy.”

“No,” he says, though it comes out as more of a noise than a word, “I’m not afraid of that.” He rubs at his eyes, rolls over onto his stomach and buries his face in the crook of the arm he’s slid out from under himself.

“You need me.”

And he’s right, and you both know it. You need him. But you’re not sure he knows just how much, and right now that’s something even you’re confused about. So you don’t answer. You scowl at him, at his long, undernourished form, and there’s a twinge of anger. It’s useless. It passes.

“You’re giving me a headache.” He groans, for emphasis, and you reach for him. You want to stroke his head, to touch his hair for once instead of tugging on it, and your motion strikes you as sympathetic.

Pitying.

So you stop yourself. You move your hand away from his head and if he notices – because he’s good at noticing, must sense the energy once it gets close enough – he doesn’t say anything.

Maybe he’s asleep, because he still doesn’t react as you inch even closer, completely eradicating the distance between he and you, and you lay that arm across his waist. He still smells like sweat, even after washing up, but there’s something else that you can’t quite place, and okay, it’s creepy, but for a second you just _smell_ him.

Then you rest your head down, close your eyes, let yourself listen to his breathing… and you hate yourself for liking this so much.  
It’s not that you’re ungrateful to have a kismesis. It’s what you wanted, right? He took everything from you when he took Feferi from you. What’s a prince without his princess?

Sometimes, though, you think it would be nice to know what it felt like, having someone flushed for _you_ for a change.

You’ve seen him happy. You’ve seen how he looks at Karkat, the way he _smiles_ at him; it’s smug but it’s so _red_ , so very, very red, and maybe you hate Karkat a little, platonically, because you know he doesn’t appreciate it.

Not like you would.

And maybe, just maybe, there’s a little bit of wetness on your face, and maybe there’s a dull ache in your chest, because you know you’ll never have anything like that, and it’s not fair.

It’s not fair to want something _so bad_ and it’s not fair to know you’ll have to feel that way forever.

You squeeze your eyes shut, you hope those tears don’t leave purple stains at the corners of your eyes – or at the very least he’ll leave without seeing them, because he never really _looks_ at you anyway, and you let yourself enjoy this moment, because it’s probably the only one you’ll ever have…

And you wish there were words in your language for how badly that hurts.

**Author's Note:**

> i uploaded this in 2011 - it's been 5 years and i still get kudos!! so i just wanted to say thank you to everyone, even though this crusty old thing is kind of embarrassing. //blows kisses to everyone


End file.
